A GOOD that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the April flow'rs,
A sweet with floods of gall, that run combin'd,
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
An honour that more fickle is than wind,
A glory at opinion's frown that low'rs,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind,
A vain delight our equals to command,
A style of greatness, in effect a dream,
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, deck'd with a pompous name,
Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death make us our errors know.
W. Drummond.
THE longer life the more offence,
The more offence the greater paine,
The greater paine the lesse defence,
The lesse defence the lesser gaine;
The loss of gaine long yll doth trye,
Wherefore come death and let me dye.
The shorter life, less count I finde,
The less account the sooner made,
The account soon made, the merier mind,
The merier mind doth thought evade;
Short life in truth this thing doth trye,
Wherefore come death and let me dye.
Come gentle death, the ebbe of care,
The ebbe of care, the flood of life,
The flood of life, the joyful fare,
The joyful fare, the end of strife,
The end of strife, that thing wish I,
Wherefore come death and let me die.
VICTORIOUS men of earth, no more
Proclaim how wide your empires are;
Though you bind-in every shore
And your triumphs reach as far
As night or day,
Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
Each able to undo mankind,
Death's servile emissaries are;
Nor to these alone confined,
He hath at will
More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
THE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant with laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still;
Early or late,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives! creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar, now,
See where the victor victim bleeds!
All heads must come
To the cold tomb,
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.
THE lopped tree in time may grow again,
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The sorriest wight may find release of pain,
The driest soil suck in some moist'ning shower:
Time goes by turns, and chances change by course,
From foul to fair, from better times to worse.
The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow;
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb; Her tides have equal times to come and go;
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web:
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.
Not always full of leaf, nor ever spring,
Not endless night, yet not eternal day:
The saddest birds a season find to sing,
The roughest storms a calm may soon allay,
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.
A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
That net that holds no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crossed;
Few all they need, but none have all they wish.
Unmingled joys here to no man befall;
Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.
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